


An Illegitimate Legacy

by Halberdier



Series: A Legitimate Businessman [5]
Category: Homestuck, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Homestuck Stabdads, Alternate Universe - Human, Gen, Humanstuck, a legitimate businessman, noir
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:53:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24411622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Halberdier/pseuds/Halberdier
Summary: A Legitimate Businessman returns in this thrilling sequel! Five years later, Jack "Spades Slick" Vantas has it all. An escape from the world of crime and conspiracy. A truly legitimate business. A future for his adopted son Karkat at a nice college. But when Karkat goes missing, Jack realizes he has only one chance to get his son back: summon (and incidentally hire) the problem sleuth known as Patrick Sloan.
Series: A Legitimate Businessman [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/21629
Comments: 10
Kudos: 18





	1. The Troubles of a Legitimate Businessman

Jack needed this.

He actually had really needed this, to be entirely honest. He hadn't been sure how well he'd adjust to the life of a simple grocery store owner, after a lifetime of relentlessly fighting his way to the top and relentlessly fighting to stay there. Sure, the city of Millhaven was a long way from the deserts he had come from or the deserts he had grown accustomed to -- he knew he wouldn't be a fan of the brutal Wisconsin winters, which he soon found out got cold enough to freeze his whiskers right inside their follicles -- but these were things he knew would ensure nobody followed him. Here, he wasn't José Vantas, or Blackjack Vance, or Jack Noir, or Spades Slick. Here he was simply known as George Gutierrez, the owner of the Send-It-Mart, and by some unfathomable stroke of fortune, he somehow really enjoyed being both of those things.

The stakes were so much lower than in organized crime or in real estate -- and in some ways, weren't those the same thing? -- but a lot of the tasks remained the same. He could be charismatic when he needed to be and unpleasant when he didn't. The only thing he disliked was the fact that people in the Midwest tended to be a little bit more shocked by strings of creative profanity. Or maybe that wasn't necessarily a Midwest thing -- the transition from subordinate mobsters and subordinate dealers to subordinate teenagers and subordinate retirees required a fair amount of code-switching that Jack hadn't had to do since his younger days as a governor's aide. But prices still needed to be negotiated, deals still needed to be struck, and sometimes, gosh darnit -- as he reminded himself to say -- people still sometimes needed to be scared shitless.

Whoops.

So it wasn't perfect. Even after five years, Jack still slipped up from time to time. Even in a big city like this one, an overwhelming  _ friendliness _ pervaded this neck of the Midwest, and people had a habit of asking Jack some awfully personal questions. Sometimes he could get away with letting people think he was from Chicagopolis -- that at least would excuse why he wasn't an awfully talkative fellow.

Which was not to say that Millhaven was some sort of crime-free utopia. Far from it. Hell, Millhaven had a history of its own that rivaled the greats. Even the legendary gangster Scarman Snorkley himself couldn't take it away from the grip of the powerful family that held it -- and hold it they did, from before the turn of the century until things fell apart only maybe a decade or so ago. Crime, of course, continued with wild abandon on the street level through individual criminals and smaller gangs, and downtown certainly wasn't any place to be caught alone at night for any kind of stiffneck. But it was just chaos compared to what it used to be. A bunch of idiot screwheads running around without a plan. Nothing like the finely tuned machine the old masters had made it. Nothing even like the way Jack's old stomping grounds used to hold a rhythm so tight even Basie couldn't swing it. At least before it all exploded in everyone's face. A city like this could use some reorganization. Even after years and years of absence, Jack knew that the underbelly of this city craved to fall in line. If it were just given a purpose. If it were just given a leader. Someone with power. Legitimate power.

Anyway, that's why Jack kept himself to the suburbs. He couldn't afford to think that way. He got out of that lifestyle five whole years ago. His troubles were over. The only secrets he had to keep were the ones he buried in that deep desert pit, and the only associates he had to worry about were the ones who weren't observing proper deli slicer safety. He'd gone straight now. He liked being a truly legitimate businessman. He enjoyed it. It was good for him. And he did this for a reason. He may have become a father purely out of obligation to accessorization, but certain events put the importance of his child into sharp focus. And he swore from that moment that he'd never expose his son to these kinds of dangers anymore.

But sometimes, danger exposes itself all on its own.

Late one night, as he was locking up the dairy coolers for the evening, he heard the phone ring from inside his office.

But it wasn't the store phone. It was the other phone.

The one that only a very, very privileged or unfortunate few had the number to.

He quietly slipped into his office, locked the door behind him, and picked it up.

"Mr. Vantas?" came a voice.

"Never heard of him," Jack said hurriedly.

"No, Mr. Vantas, I know that's you." The voice was feminine. Adult, but only recently. Lightly accented, not quite placeable, like the child of a first generation immigrant who hadn't spoken her first language in years.

"That's a wild thing to say to someone who isn't that person," he growled into the receiver. "Goodbye, strange woman."

"Sorry! Gutierrez. Mr. Gutierrez. It's me." The voice was awfully frantic, but Jack was quite sure that he didn't give a shit about anyone who would blow his cover like that.

Still, he had to admit he was curious. "Well now the name's right, but who's me?"

"Kanaya," the voice said. "You know. Karkat's friend?"

Jack sputtered in shock. "Holy shit, Kanaya? The hell did you get this number?"

"Karkat gave it to me."

Jack picked up a pencil just to break it between his fingers. "And did that little shit mention at the time that I expressly forbade him from telling anyone this number?" The kid had to memorize it, as Jack wouldn't even let him store it in his phone. It was for emergencies only, and could never get in the wrong hands.

"He said he thought he was being followed, and if anything happened, I should tell you."

Jack stopped, his roiling rage turning into icy fear. "What do you mean," he asked slowly, "'if anything happened?'"

"That's just it, Mr. Vantas--"

"Gutierrez."

Kanaya sighed. "Look," she said with an almost mechanically clear enunciation of each sound, "I understand the need for secrecy, as well as the impulse to protect yourself and your family, but what I have to tell you is more important than arguing over your secret identity right now."

"Then spit it out, kid!" Jack practically cried out. "All this cagey buildup is going to give me an early prescription to Lipitor."

"Karkat has gone missing."

For a few moments, Jack forgot he was seated in his chair. Instead, he felt like he was falling from the upper stratosphere and couldn't turn his head to see the ground.

"Missing?" he breathed.

"That's right."

Jack slapped his face and gripped his desk and took a second to ground himself. "No," he said. "Naw, no, that can't be right. I just heard from him a couple days ago. He's fine. You sure about this?"

"I believe it is the only explanation."

"Fine," he said, taking out a pen and paper to scratch out what little notes he could. "Tell me everything you know."

"I was talking to him on the phone last night--"

"What were you talking about?"

"It's really not that important."

"If my kid is missing, I gotta be the judge of what's important and what's not."

A pause. "I suppose that's fair." She cleared her throat. "We were talking about this girl--"

"There's a girl?"

"Not…" she began tentatively, before regaining her composure. "Not for him."

_Aha_ , Jack thought. So he  _ had _ said lesbian. Back to square one on what the girl's ethnicty was. "Got it," he said. "Go on."

"Well, basically Karkat had told me he was talking to me on his way back from band, and he was saying some stuff that I would rather keep relatively private, and in the middle of his sentence, he stopped. I heard this cracking noise, as if his phone had fallen or something. Then it disconnected, and I haven't gotten hold of him since."

"Maybe it just died or something. Or he dropped it and the battery fell out." Was that still a thing that could happen to phones? It had to be. Jack figured it'd be a Wisconsin winter in hell before anybody sensible bought a phone with a battery you couldn't easily replace.

"Well, that's the thing. I tried to message him online, but he hasn't even read it. I managed to get in touch with his weird stoner roommate, and apparently Karkat never came home last night. Or at least, he never saw him. Which normally I might chalk up to that boy not always being the most lucid of roommates, but when I consider all of the facts as I know them, I cannot help but worry that something's happened to him."

Jack scribbled a few things down, then took a moment to collect his thoughts. "Okay. So. This happened while he was on campus, you said?"

"Yes," she replied. "I assume it was between wherever his band rehearsals are and his dorm."

Jack wrote down  _ Fine arts center ==> Dev Hall _ and then said, "And what time, about?"

"I think it was something like 8:30?"

"You don't sound too certain."

"It was around then," she said, "but I don't remember any more specifically than that."

_ 8:30ish _ , Jack wrote, and he circled it. "Okay. All right, that's a good starting point. I've gotta figure some things out, but I'll be in touch if I need anything."

"Of course," Kanaya said. "I thought about calling the cops, but I figured that wasn't a good idea."

Jack grunted a small laugh. "Yeah, definitely not. Never trust the cops."

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

Jack leaned back in his chair. "I haven't figured it out yet. But I'll let you know as soon as I've got news. Keep safe. You remember what happened last time someone went after him."

"Please don't remind me."

The line clicked, and Jack hung up as well.

He stuck a dirty thumbnail between his teeth and chewed like a cow on its fourth course. He had, in fact, figured out what his next step was. His son was missing. From the sounds of things, he was probably kidnapped. He couldn't go to the police -- that wouldn't have been a good idea even if he hadn't lived most of a life of crime. He could go across the state to Karkat's college, but he didn't know how much he'd be able to put together himself. Making crime scenes was his forte. Analyzing them, not so much. And if Karkat had been kidnapped, it's possible that whoever might have been following him might have done so explicitly wanting an appearance from the former kingpin of the Midnight Crew.

Which meant he couldn't do this himself.

Which meant he had to hire someone.

Which meant he had two options.

He could either risk some unknown, untried gumshoe looking into this and digging up Jack's long and storied history, effectively bringing to an end the peaceful life he had built in the Midwest.  


Or he could hire someone who already knew about that shit.

Someone he never wanted to see again.

He stood up and walked to the grey locker on the side of his office. From it, he procured a toolbox and a bottle of scotch. Everything was brandy in this town; a good scotch had to be smuggled in. He set the toolbox on his desk and took a swig from the bottle.

In the top tray of the toolbox was a hammer, nails, a pliers and a screwdriver. He lifted that tray out and set it aside.

The second tray was deeper and contained a tape measure, a vicegrip, a monkey wrench, a set of allen wrenches, three pocket knives and a multitool shaped like a crab. He lifted this tray out as well and set it next to the first.

The third tray was shallow and contained a set of thumbscrews, a pair of handcuffs, a small cobbler's awl and a series of assorted clamps designed for a variety of rather specific purposes. This tray he likewise removed and set aside.

Underneath it was the bottom of the toolbox, which contained nothing except for one single aging business card.

He drank deep from the bottle before picking up the card and glaring at it with the force of a revolutionary firing squad.

_ Patrick Sloan _ , it stated in scuffed, aging black print,  _ Private Investigator _ .

That was him. The biggest tool of them all.


	2. That Mid-Credits Scene, but Expanded This Time

"Easy, ladies, easy there," Patrick Sloan said, switching his cane to his good hand while he fumbled painfully in his pocket with his bad one. But even swapping the keys he found back to the good hand didn't mean they were going to slide any more perfectly into their destination.

Henrietta Sloan, née Donnelly, and her girlfriend giggled drunkenly at Patrick's inebriated attempts to get the door unlocked.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," he said with a grin, wiggling and stabbing those keys a few times in more of an approximate direction. Summoning all the soberness left in him, he concentrated his might and slid the key into the lock, finally getting the door to open. "There we be," he said, swinging it wide and gesturing.

The two girls tumbled into the door, laughing as they got tangled up in each other on the floor.

"All right, all right," Sloan said, "nothin' to see here, move it along." He laughed gently as he helped them stand up again. Henrietta kissed him on the cheek. "D'aww, thanks dollface," he said. "But you two get off to bed and do whatever you like. I'm gonna have me some seltzer and stay up a bit."

Henrietta and her girlfriend couldn't stop giggling as they made their way through the darkness to the bedroom door. The shut the door behind them, and before too long, the sounds of a big band swing record squeezed through its cracks.

Sloan walked much more confidently through the kitchen to the refrigerator, which he opened and began to dig through. "What about you?" he asked the darkness behind him. "You want some seltzer?"

"I heard you got married," the darkness replied, "but now I'm not sure what all that was about."

Sloan straightened up and retrieved a short glass from his cupboard. "Henny and I are happy," he said, "but we both sometimes got needs the other can't provide for. Nothing wrong with that as long as we're on the same page."

"Whatever you tell yourself to sleep at night."

"So did you just come here to criticize my marriage?" Sloan asked, moving into the adjoining living room. "Awful wild thing to do, considering the last I heard from you, you didn't ever want to see me again. Ain't that right, Jack?"

He turned on a lamp. There, illuminated in its glow, wearing a baseball cap, sunglasses, tattered jeans and an old fishing sweatshirt, was Jack Noir.

"My God," Sloan said. "The years have not been kind to you."

"Says the guy with a cane."

"I think you'll remember," Sloan said, "that happened while you were still around. Getting down to just the cane is a clear sign that the years have treated me with nothing but sweetness and gentle caresses."

Jack snorted. "Oh, I'll bet."

"At least I haven't taken to dressing like I've got a calendar counting down the days until muskie season begins."

"I just don't like the idea of anyone in this town recognizing me," Jack replied.

"Well you're doing a bang-up job of that," Sloan said, squinting at the logo on Jack's hat as his eyes adjusted to the light. It looked an awful lot like a baseball glove, but looking closer, it was clearly made out of a lower case m and b. "I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you don't really cheer for the Millhaven Brewsters, then. You never seemed as a sports fan."

"Sports are for neanderthals, sure, but baseball is the only one that matters."   
  
"How do you figure?"

"Ah, you don't know shit about fuck. You wouldn't understand."   
  
"I understand enough to know that the Brewsters haven't been anything more than just okay for decades."

"It's all they had at the airport. Whattaya want from me?"

"At least a little effort. A ball cap and a pair of Aviators do not a disguise make, Jack," Sloan said.

"Name's not Jack anymore," Jack muttered.

"Well, it never technically was, now was it?" Sloan asked. "Tell me. Why are you really here?"

"Three nights ago," Jack said, "on his way back from band practice, my kid went missing." He leaned forward and took off his sunglasses to look Sloan dead in the eyes. "I need your help to get him back."

Sloan choked on his seltzer.

"What's the matter?" Jack asked. "Never heard of a missing person's case?"   
  
"No, of course I have," Sloan said, putting the offending beverage down. "I'm just… kind of shocked that you came to me with a job."

Jack shook his head. "Not a job," he said, reaching a hand up under his sweatshirt to extract something. "A 'job' would imply that I intend to pay you." There, gleaming in his hand, was a bright white revolver.

Sloan sighed. "Okay, take it easy, Jack," he said wearily. "We're past that. You can put the gun down."

"Not until you've expressed your commitment."

"Jeez, commit me, all right? Business is doing fine these days now that nobody has a grudge to settle. I can afford to take on a few cases pro bono again. And I owe you a favor anyway, so… yeah, fine. I'm committed."

"You owe me a lot more than that," Jack said, lowering the gun and reaching back into the sweatshirt to holster it.

"Well, why don't we just start with the favor and see where things go from there."

Jack took a moment. "Why do you always sound like you're coming onto me?"

"It's a defense mechanism," Sloan said. "Now get out of my apartment."

"We haven't even discussed the details."

"And we can do that a lot better after five hours' sleep."

"I ain't sleeping until I know my kid is safe."

Sloan rubbed his face with both hands and stared at the ceiling. "Jack," he said.  
  
"Douchebag," he replied.  
  
"If you want your son back, you're going to need the help of someone who isn't drunk and exhausted."

Jack scowled at him, looking like he had several different words he wanted to say but swallowing all of them. "Fine," Jack said, rising from his chair and moving to the exit. "Your office. Ten O'clock sharp."

"Eleven."

"Ten," Jack repeated, and he slammed the door behind him.


	3. Let's See How Karkat Is Doing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day.

"Wake him up," came a voice.

Ice cold water splashed all over Karkat's face and chest, and he awoke with a loud gasp and a tirade of profanity that would undoubtedly be very fun to write but far less interesting to read.

"Calm him down," the voice said. It was forceful. It was feminine. It was followed immediately by a wicked slap to the face.

"FUCK!" Karkat screamed, but the slap had its desired effect soon after. He got his breathing under control enough to notice that he was in a room far too dim to see anything. He was also tied to a chair.

_Shit._

He struggled against the knots.

"Keep him still," the voice said.

Hands clamped down on his shoulder. Each hand felt different -- one of them was so sweaty Karkat could feel it even through his already soaked shirt -- but they both sent a message loud and clear.

"What is this shit?" Karkat growled. "What kind of shit are you trying to pull? Where the shit am I? And why," he asked, with a big, theatrical snort, "does it smell exactly like big shitty piles of shit?"

"You should say the word 'shit' again," the voice said with what almost sounded like a giggle. "It's beginning to sound musical."

"Amazing," Karkat grunted. "I've been kidnapped by the greatest comedienne of all time. You should be careful with those goofs. You don't want to reach the forbidden levels of goofiness."

"I hear that once you go Extremely Goofy, the Mouse Corporation has you assassinated."

Karkat's mouth hung open for a moment. "Are you… are you fucking playing along with me?"

"Old habits die hard."

"Who… Who are you?" Karkat struggled again. "Who are these bigass meatwads giving me the extreme restraints? And why is the guy on my right trying to moisturize me?"

"You can hit him for that," the voice said, and in response a fist collided with Karkat's temple.

Everything went white, and a loud ringing noise filled the air. Karkat could only barely make out what was said.

"Christ, Q, she said hit him, not kill him," came a voice from the left. It sounded almost… familiar.

"I said what I said, Horace," the original voice said, "and I don't recall asking for your opinion on it."

Karkat's head lolled back to the center. "Horace?" he mumbled. "No…"

"Ah dammit," the voice called Horace said. Karkat didn't suppose… he couldn't suppose…

"You'll be quiet now, Horace," the clear leader said. "I don't want any surprises spoiled before I'm good and ready to reveal them."

Clenching all of his muscles, Karkat fought through the pain to try and clarify his mind. He was… someplace dark. Okay, not great. Someplace… cold? Someplace incredibly smelly. It absolutely did stink like shit.

How did he get here?

He had been walking back to his dorm, talking on the phone, when....

"The kid," he said aloud.

"The kid," the voice responded.

"Where's the fucking kid?" he asked. "The little kid. With the baseball bat."

"He's not that little," the voice responded. "He's thirteen. Lots of growing up happens at thirteen, doesn't it?"

"Lady," he grunted, "you don't know the half of it."

"I know so much more than you realize, Karkat."

Karkat froze. "That's not my name," he said -- not instinctively, perhaps, but after 5 years of practice, it sure seemed like it.

"Well," the voice said, seeming to giggle again, "maybe you'd prefer Carter?"

"That is NOT--!" He shouted, entirely instinctively, before catching himself.

"So then Karkat it is," the voice went on, humming with satisfaction. "You're certainly not -- what was it again?" A shuffle of papers, and for an instant a lighter flicked on. It wasn't enough light to see much, just the impression of perfectly manicured hands with dark nails, and then it was gone. "Michael Gutierrez. Goodness. That's certainly not right."

"No, it's--"

"No, it's your name. Your name is Karkat Vantas, and if you didn't like me playing along with you earlier, I'm certainly not going to go back to playing along now."

He clamped his mouth shut to keep saying something that he knew would get him punched again.

"I'll take your silence as permission to continue," she said, "although I do appreciate how cooperative you have been at asking questions and giving me the opportunity to answer them. I don't think I remember you being quite so cooperative when you were little."

"How the hell--" He started.

"--do I know that, is that what you're asking?" she finished.

"Do you know me?"

"Not very well," she said, "at least, not personally. Considering the history that ties us, we probably should have seen a lot more of each other. But we can chalk that up to the… quirks of my upbringing. Or perhaps the quirks of your personality."

"Oh what the shit-tits is that supposed--"

"--to mean? It means you were an unfriendly child. And I was a sheltered one. But in the last few years, I have managed to learn a lot more. A lot more about you. A lot more about… gosh, just about everything! Isn't that exciting, Karkat?"

"What the fuck."

"So much had been kept hidden from me. But then one day, it all got violently ripped open! So from that day, I resolved to learn as much as I could."

"About what?"

"About who I am," she said.

A bright light turned on right in front of Karkat's face. He shut his eyes against the pain of it.

"About what's under the surface of this city," she continued.

Karkat slowly wrenched his eyes open, fighting to adjust and see.

"About who our fathers were."

At that, Karkat's eyes went wide, which naturally flooded them with too much light and made him close his eyes with a loud expletive.

"About who has always really run this town."

He worked up the gumption to finally look his captor right in her face. It was a young face, the same age as him. It was a face he had known when it was even younger. It was a face he hadn't seen since that day five years ago.

"And about how we can take her down," said the bright and beautiful and smiling face of Aradia Diamante.


End file.
